The bookshelves held the usual Kafka, the obligatory Borges, the point-scoring Musil.
…but discarded it as too easy. Rather as impossible! my reader will say. Granted, but the undertaking was impossible from the very beginning and of all the impossible ways of carrying it out, this was the least interesting.
‘This City is so horrible that its mere existence and perdurance, though in the midst of a secret desert, contaminates the past and the future and in some way even jeopardizes the stars’ Continue reading
‘I thought that man can be an enemy of other men, of the moments of other men, but not of a country: not of fireflies, words, gardens, streams of water, sunsets.’
I regret not stumbling upon this before the Independence day. Maybe the sentence come out of the blue in the story but it makes an universal observation, one worth keeping in our heads. Isn’t it the case that we confuse our country with those wicked people? Cold, fourious, angry arguing about the right way to live? But all this is so remote and so disconnected from the place itself. Parks, trees, birds and rivers. In no possible way you can hate such things. The place is what we love. As for the people, well, it depends.